


Resumption

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [25]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:39:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1979715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cats are not the only things good at holding grudges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resumption

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a weird summer so far. I've been too hot/too busy/too ill to write, depending on the day in question, and this stupid chapter took far too long to finish.
> 
> BetaBetaBeta credit to Norcumi (and Merry Amelie, too!)

Qui-Gon went up the stairs on quiet feet, mindful of the sleeping Padawans in the suite’s other downstairs bedroom. He stepped through the open entryway and palmed the door closed.

Venge was sitting on the edge of their bed, staring at the window without blinking. His gaze was unfocused; Qui-Gon doubted he was actually looking at anything at all.

Teya was lying on the other end, facing away from Venge and twitching the end of his tail back and forth as he, too, stared at nothing. Despite the strained situation, the tableau still brought a smile to Qui-Gon’s lips.

“I didn’t expect to come up here and find a reflection of this evening’s fascinating standoff,” Qui-Gon said, to announce his presence.

“Cats are very good at holding grudges,” Venge replied, and then turned his head to look at Qui-Gon. “The Padawans are…?”

Qui-Gon nodded. “Asleep, finally.”

Venge lowered his head, averting his eyes. “Thank you, for…for doing that, for helping Anakin. I do not think I am the most reassuring presence at the moment.”

Qui-Gon suspected that Anakin would have been pleased by his Master’s presence, regardless, but he did understand his mate’s reticence. Anakin had given in at last to his spinning, chaotic thoughts and quietly requested a Force Suggestion so that he could sleep. Neither was in the best mental shape, and yet for both Venge and Anakin, the trial was just beginning.

Qui-Gon had spent a few moments thinking while downstairs. Now, he took in Venge’s downcast features, marked by exhaustion and Fire-fueled rage, and knew exactly what needed to be said.

“Does your Master know that he raised a manipulative sneak, Knight Kenobi?”

Venge’s head jerked up. He stared at Qui-Gon, his lips moving soundlessly as he repeated the sentence, searching for the memory that the words belonged to.

At last, Qui-Gon earned what he had been hoping for: a strained, tired, but genuine smile. “Well,” Venge said, a hint of warmth showing through the cold burning rage in his eyes, “if he didn’t before, he certainly does now.”

Qui-Gon sat down on the bed next to Venge, purposefully ensuring that their shoulders brushed together. Venge sucked in a breath, but did not move away. Considering the earlier, unexpected ice that had spun outward from Venge’s hands, it was a better reaction than Qui-Gon had expected.

“How much of that was intentional?”

Venge’s smile faded. “I had been dwelling on some of it for a long time, but there was never a right time to say it—especially after Dooku left the Order.”

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. “And the rest?”

“He stepped on my last fucking nerve,” Venge growled.

“He excels at that, yes.” Qui-Gon kept an innocuous expression on his face when Venge gave him a suspicious look.

His mate dropped his eyes first, but he did not turn away. “Do you think it will help, what I said to him?”

“The very fact that you still felt it needed to be said, even though it has been a year since he was warned about Sidious’s intentions?” Qui-Gon shook his head. “I don’t know.” Dooku’s aura in the Force remained unchanged, but as to what he had spent his time doing, Dooku would not say.

Qui-Gon reached out to take Venge’s hand, relieved when Venge allowed it. His fingertips were still reddened and cold to the touch. Qui-Gon did not disguise his efforts to warm his mate’s fingers, which earned him another side-long look.

 _It is nothing_ , Venge had said of that spiderwebbing of ice and frost, but Qui-Gon knew better. The other time he’d seen Venge affect the temperature of the air, he had been in fear of Qui-Gon’s survival. The ice had been, in truth, the most frightening moment of Venge and Dooku’s confrontation.

“You should sleep,” Venge said, interrupting the track of Qui-Gon’s thoughts.

“So should you,” Qui-Gon replied. “You appear to be dead on your feet.”

Venge’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps today was enough,” he muttered, which was nonsensical until Qui-Gon thought about the energy his mate must have burned through.

“Well, you didn’t rest for more than an hour last night,” Qui-Gon said, trying to smile. He hadn’t been offended by Venge’s refusal to sleep further, but it had been…strange, to have Obi-Wan nearby and yet not be sharing his bed.

There was nothing humorous in Venge’s reply. “That was the only sleep I have had in six days.”

Qui-Gon frowned. A Jedi could go without sleep for that long, but it was never pleasant, and the price was typically harsh. “The sedatives?”

Venge shook his head. “Not if anyone else is around. If—if I have darker dreams than the one you interrupted, the results can be destructive.”

“Then what can I do?”

Qui-Gon hadn’t realized how tense Venge had gotten until his shoulders began to relax. “Do not put anything over me—not a resting limb, or even a blanket you think I may need,” Venge said. “If I feel confined, I…I panic.”

There were implications in that statement that were not kind, but all Qui-Gon said was, “Then I will make certain it doesn’t happen.”

It did not take long to finish readying for sleep. They wound up lying on their sides, facing each other, with almost enough space between them for another body. Teya curled up at the foot of the bed, near Qui-Gon’s feet. Dim street lighting cast colors and shadows throughout the room, but did not disguise the fact that Venge’s eyes were giving off their own faint, amber light.

“Your eyes are still glowing,” Qui-Gon murmured, placing his hand, palm down, on the sheet between them.

“They do that,” Venge returned, his voice just as soft. After what seemed like long minutes of deliberation, he rested his own hand on top of Qui-Gon’s. “Does it bother you?”

“No.”

Venge smiled, the curve of his lips accented by the light. “Liar.”

Qui-Gon nodded in rueful acknowledgement. It wasn’t quite a lie, but it hadn’t been the entire truth, either. “It bothers me because of the implications it has for you, not because the sight of it is disturbing.”

“You used to think otherwise.” Venge’s thumb traced a single circle across the back of Qui-Gon’s hand.

“Well, as you pointed out at the time, we’d just met,” Qui-Gon replied. “I needed time to get used to…to certain aspects of you.” It wasn’t quite what he wanted to say, but it was close enough.

Venge blinked twice, slow and deliberate. “And now?”

 _Large cat,_ Qui-Gon thought, amused. “I love you.”

“I love you, also,” Venge said, and then released a long, drawn-out sigh. “To my relief, I am a terrible Sith.”

“Thank the Force for that,” Qui-Gon said in a dry voice. The statement was not entirely sarcastic—he _was_ grateful that Obi-Wan had no interest in being a Sith, beyond what Fire had forced into existence. “Why do you think so?”

“The ancient Sith did not eschew love, despite what the old stories might imply. They did not trifle with the emotion because it did terrible things to their self-control. Look at what Vosa has done with the Bando Gora. She asked them to assassinate four Jedi, and they did not hesitate. They did not care if she erased their memories. They did not care that they would die. She asked, and they answered.

“Imagine how disastrous it could be if it was the reverse. For now, they are a cult who deals in a terrible drug, but their ambitions do not seem to spread beyond Death Sticks. With the wrong word from the lips of someone that Vosa loves, they could become stewards of a criminal empire that makes even the Hutts bow low.”

“That is the least reassuring thing I have ever heard,” Qui-Gon said, a cold chill racing down his spine. When Venge raised an eyebrow in unspoken question, he said, “Komari was never able to master attachment, especially her attachment to Dooku—she could not separate her role as a Jedi from her developing romantic feelings for him. When Dooku discovered this, he blocked her impending Trials and made immediate arrangements for them to return to the Temple. Komari fled and joined the mission against the Bando Gora, most likely in an attempt to prove herself.”

“Vosa loves _him?_ ” Venge raised both eyebrows in disbelief. “I am not certain I know what to think of that.”

“She confided in me once.” Qui-Gon felt a moment’s sadness. It was the last moment they had spent together, Padawans current and former commiserating over their shared Master. “I told her unequivocally that Dooku was never going to be capable of returning her feelings, and it had nothing to do with her age, gender, or status as a Padawan. I thought she had taken my words to heart, but later…well. I learned that she hadn’t.”

Venge was frowning. “Still, why block her Trials? Failure does not mean dismissal, and the lesson learned would have been valuable for her.”

“I think he panicked. Dooku never handled emotional crises very well.”

Venge gave him a smile with a sharp, sardonic edge. “Now that sounds accurate.”

“You changed the subject, you know,” Qui-Gon said, after a period of silence in which half of the lights from outside shut down. The room was much darker, but he knew Venge was still awake—his eyes gave him away.

“Did I?”

“After speaking of all of this…” Qui-Gon hesitated. “Do you still want me to stay away from you?”

“Temporarily? Yes,” Venge said, and his grip on Qui-Gon’s hand tightened. “Not everything I am capable of is as horrific as that futile attempt at resurrection, but that does not make it good, or even remotely acceptable. He is—I am also a Jedi Master who will have to live with himself when Fire finally dies.”

Qui-Gon didn’t miss the verbal slip. Fire had been burning in his mate’s system for almost a month, now, but the disassociation was still jarring to hear. “I don’t think that Fire’s departure will erase who you are.”

“Perhaps not,” Venge granted him, “but it will not be my eyes that you see.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Greegor picked up his knife, dusted it off, and slid it back into the sheath at his waist. He repeated those steps for the next six knives. Breegin was liberating credits from the idiots who’d attacked them as they lay unconscious on the cantina floor, but he was also healing their allies, those who’d sided with the two Jedi Knights during the unexpected pub brawl.

“Is this what you lot do for fun?” the Caamasi asked, an ice pack pressed against her cheek.

“Not on purpose,” Greegor said, while the bartender poured their Bothan companion another shot of good Kalsh bourbon.

“It happens often, though,” Breegin added, coming back to the bar with the fruits of his labor. “Will this cover the damages, Jor?” he asked, dumping the collection of credits on the countertop.

The bartender sighed and poked through the mix of Republic, Cho-Mar, wupiupi, and trugut credits. “Man, I hope so. I just got the insurance up to date from the last damned fight that rolled through here.”

“My apologies, again,” the Caamasi said. “I did not mean to insult them.”

“They were looking for a fight,” Greegor said.

Breegin nodded. “You could have blessed them, and still it would have been like this.”

The Bothan snickered. “And, of course, you had to defend the lady’s honor.”

Greegor blinked. “Of course.”

“It isn’t our fault that you don’t have any left to defend, Duinar,” Breegin retorted.

The Bothan contemplated that for a moment. “True enough. Is there enough in that pile to cover the next round?” he asked Jor.

Jor scowled. “Don’t push your luck.”

Duinar sighed and waved his hand. “Fine, fine. I’ll cover it, then.”

Breegin dropped his hand to his belt, his eyes widening. “I’m vibrating. Why am I vibrating?”

Greegor eyed his brother. “You were supposed to duck, not take a chair to the back of the head. You are vibrating because you left your commlink in silent mode.” The moment he finished speaking, Greegor’s own commlink gave a quiet chime.

“Leave can’t be over with already,” Breegin muttered after he retrieved the device and checked its message.

“It’s not just leave. Looks like we missed a message,” Greegor said, reading back through the messages they’d missed. The texted missive had been terse and to the point, just like their instructor. “Apparently the Bando Gora are getting bolder.”

“What’s a Bando Gora?” the Caamasi asked. At some point, Greegor hoped she would offer her name. He had the faintest recollection that it was impolite to ask a Caamasi first. They were still easier to deal with than the Firrerreo, who would rather be shot than to exchange names with a stranger.

“Smugglers,” Breegin answered her. “Drug mules. Cultists. Murderers. It depends on who you ask.”

“The Hutts sometimes try to lay claim to the Bando Gora death stick trade, but it never takes,” Duinar said. “Too many rumors.”

Greegor perked up. “Rumors?”

“I like rumors,” Breegin said.

Duinar grinned. “Pay up.”

Breegin gave the Bothan a flat look. “I took a chair meant for your head. Debt paid.”

“Also, you still owe us for Bilbringi,” Greegor said.

Breegin nodded. “And Ord Mantell.”

“Puoari.”

“The Cron Drift.”

Duinar was no longer smiling. “Your recollection is irritating. The Hutts can’t keep up with the Bando Gora—seems they finally met their match in ruthlessness and then some. They’re willing to slaughter anyone who tries to intercept their shipments, customers included. Then there’s the rumor that the Bando Gora control their own system, but nobody knows which one, so they can’t be cornered for hostile takeovers.”

Jor traced an obscure religious symbol in the air with his fingers. “Don’t talk about those demon worshippers inside my bar. Their death stick trade is bad for business. I’ve already lost three regulars to that shit.”

Greegor and Breegin looked at each other. “I want to meet a Bando Gora, now,” Breegin said. “They sound interesting.”

“Maybe later,” Greegor replied, smiling. “One group of crazy people at a time, brother.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon awoke to the sound of Venge’s voice at its most caustic. “Oh, so you _are_ speaking to me again.”

“If I am to receive greetings like that, then I do not see the point at all,” a female grumbled in response. Qui-Gon suspected a comm or other means of communication; there was a hint of static, perhaps an echo. He wasn’t quite awake enough to discern the difference.

“Given the length of your silence, I was…perhaps I was making assumptions as to the cause,” Venge said. Qui-Gon felt Venge’s hand settle onto his hair, fingertips massaging his scalp. Qui-Gon sighed in response and decided that he was in no hurry to finish waking.

There was no disguising the mocking tone of the woman’s reply, no matter what faint interference her voice was laced with. “Perhaps you were.”

“I apologize.” Venge sounded hesitant. “I was not actually trying to wound you with my words, before. I did not realize I had struck so close to the truth.”

The resulting silence was long. Venge’s fingers did not still in their slow exploration of Qui-Gon’s hair, but Qui-Gon could feel the uneasiness the lack of response was creating.

“I cannot remember the last time I was granted an apology, let alone one that was sincere,” the woman said at last. She seemed quieter, and uncertain.

“Clearly, you have been spending your time with the wrong people,” Qui-Gon decided to say.

Venge’s hand went still; it was the woman who spoke first. “Well, isn’t _that_ interesting.” Her voice had become sultry smoke, with no trace of hesitation remaining.

“More like nerve-wracking,” Venge retorted. “Are you even awake?”

Qui-Gon considered the question. “Mostly,” he granted. He was aware, at least, even if he had yet to open his eyes.

“The two of you are very closely linked, even beyond the confines of your Jedi Lifebond,” the woman said. “Perhaps that is why?”

Venge answered Qui-Gon’s question before he could find the right words. “Neither of us is speaking Basic, Qui-Gon.”

That got his attention. Qui-Gon opened his eyes, sat up, and was greeted by the sight of Darth Zannah’s holographic projection. The black holocron was resting on a fold of bed sheet in front of Venge. His mate was fully dressed but for his boots, sitting cross-legged on the bed next to Qui-Gon.

Zannah herself was staring up at him with a positively gleeful grin on her face. _“Fefniath Jeedai, eshute.”_

Qui-Gon shook his head as his understanding of the language melted away. “Whatever was happening…sorry, I can’t understand you.” He looked at Venge. “I still haven’t figured out if that phrase is an insult or a compliment.”

“It can be both. It depends upon its use,” Venge answered him. Qui-Gon knew his mate had slept for at least part of the night, but the marks of exhaustion had not faded. “She is teasing you.”

“Try not to give away all of my secrets, Lord Venge,” Zannah snapped, reverting to Basic.

Qui-Gon felt his skin crawl at the granted title. “I doubt that either of us knows even the slightest percentage of your total kept secrets, Lady Zannah.”

She smirked at him, well aware of his intentional choice of honorific. “I would like it kept that way. However, the secrets of others? Those, I will grant you for free.”

Venge’s chin came up, his posture becoming more alert. “You found something?”

“I’d hoped to bring you word from Ekkage, but in the years since our last conversation, she lost control over her Hssiss packs, and then lost control of herself.” Zannah shook her head, dismissive. “Ekkage always relied too firmly on external outlets. Vowrawn, however, is still delightful company.”

“Vowrawn?” Qui-Gon repeated. The name was unfamiliar, whereas Ekkage still held a terrifying place in crècheling tales.

“He was one of the last pureblood Sith recognized by title,” Venge explained. “He is supposed to have been an excellent orator.”

“And when words failed Vowrawn, he had the strength and skill to make his wishes known,” Zannah continued. “One of Vowrawn’s enemies attempted to use A Drop of Fire against him in his youth. Instead of suffering through the full six days of its effects, he burned through it in a massive, singular undertaking of great power.”

“He built his own tomb.” Venge rested his chin on his folded hands, but he didn’t seem pleased by the tale.

Zannah nodded once. “By doing so, he earned the faith of his followers, who protected him when the effort left him weak and vulnerable.”

 _Six days is a single dose._ Qui-Gon committed that information to memory. Zan Arbor had given Obi-Wan not a single dose, but twenty doses— “You are _not_ doing that,” he said, appalled and unable to even imagine the effort it would take to purge that much of the toxin.

Venge’s mouth had compressed into a thin, grim line. “You’re telling me that I can burn Fire out of my system all at once and most likely die, _or_ I can wait for Fire to burn out on its own, but still risk dying in the process.”

To the ancient Sith’s credit, she did not gloat over Venge’s misfortune. “Essentially, yes. Sith toxins were meant to be effective, Venge. You know this.”

“Those are still terrible options.”

“I said I would find information for you. I never guaranteed that it would be useful.” Zannah made a noise that sounded very much like a derogatory tongue-click as the holocron’s emitter matrix shut down.

Venge scooped up the holocron with both hands and regarded it with an unreadable expression. “It is not the worst news ever,” he muttered. His thumbs were caressing the lowest layer of sigils, but not activating them.

Qui-Gon shoved away his own disquiet, caused by both that brief understanding of the Sith tongue, and by Darth Zannah’s revelations. “Don’t downplay the seriousness of this. Tell me honestly about what four months of Fire will do to you.”

Venge met Qui-Gon’s worried gaze without flinching. “There is…a risk,” he admitted. “Not even Sidious channels this much energy so consistently, else he would burn through his bodies faster than he could replenish them.”

“Aside from the risk?”

“I will be, to use Ra’um-Ve’s phrase, utterly wrung out, mentally and physically. But dead?” Venge shook his head, his expression morphing into one of absolute fury. “No. I _refuse_ to die because of Sidious’s machinations.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“We’re leaving today,” Qui-Gon announced, after Anakin had crawled out of bed and forcibly crammed his body into a shower. Rillian had grumbled just as much when it was her turn for the ’fresher. Neither of them had been injured yesterday, but tense muscles and high speed jinking on a speederbike still hurt like hell the next day.

Rillian looked up from her breakfast; Anakin kept forgetting to eat his. It was hard to focus on eating when all of his nerves were still demanding he keep careful track of Count Dooku. The older man had emerged from his room as unflappable as ever, but it was a mask that Anakin had never trusted.

[Leave? I thought we had one more day.]

Anakin gave his Master a suspicious look, but Venge only shook his head. “I must depart today, regardless. It is a half-day’s return flight.”

No mention of where he was going. At least Anakin wasn’t the only one feeling paranoid about Dooku’s presence. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I unloaded the _Malla Kazza_ yesterday afternoon,” Anakin said. “We can do that after breakfast.”

 _“Malla Kazza,”_ Venge repeated the ship’s new name. “Beautiful hunter?”

Rillian smiled. [Beautiful spirit tracker.]

“Appropriate,” Venge commented. His smile was faint, but genuine, and Rillian’s eyes shone with pride.

“Told ya,” Anakin said, and just grinned when Rillian chuffed and elbowed him. He’d teased Rillian for taking too long with ship-naming, but even he had to admit, the result was worth the wait.

Venge looked down at the food waiting on the kitchenette’s table and made a face. Qui-Gon noticed the expression and said, “Eat,” in something close to a growl.

Venge stared back, both eyebrows rising. He somehow managed to look both sardonic and fond.

Master Qui-Gon’s smile was immediate and a touch rueful. “That didn’t have the intended effect, did it?”

Venge shook his head. “Not even close.”

“Guys, it is way too early for flirting,” Anakin said, and turned his attention back to his breakfast once he realized that Venge had taken on the task of Dooku-watching.

The meal wasn’t bad—better than the Temple commissary, at least. Venge wasn’t the only one not eating, but Anakin suspected it was the quality of the food that put Dooku off, not a lack of appetite.

Most of breakfast was gone, much of it consumed by Anakin and Rillian working in tandem, when Dooku cleared his throat and stood up from his chair. “There is something I wish to say,” he began, “and it is twofold.”

Anakin looked up at the former Jedi, aware that everyone else was doing the same. Honestly, he’d kind of expected Dooku to book it off-planet as soon as possible. At least now Dooku’s continued presence made since.

“To the first, I apologize for my hasty departure yesterday evening,” Dooku said. “No matter my feelings, it was still rude, and I abhor ill manners.”

Master Qui-Gon answered before anyone else could speak. “Accepted,” he said, and was echoed by Rillian. Anakin stuck with nodding, but Venge did nothing more than stare.

“To the second…” Dooku hesitated, and Anakin was struck by how uncertain he looked. He’d never seen Dooku appear as anything less than confidant.

 _Not true,_ his subconscious whispered. The voice was thin and weak, but he’d finally begun to recognize it as Vader’s. Anakin had talked with Yoda enough to realize that the whispers were not an attempt by the old fragments to gain dominance. It was just how those particular memories gained Anakin’s attention.

 _Right,_ Anakin thought, as he flashed on a ship’s interior—the _Invisible Hand._ Dooku’s expression had been one of stunned incoherence when Sidious had called for his execution. At the time, Anakin had been disgusted by the display. Dooku was a war criminal in the eyes of the Republic. What else had he expected?

“You are correct, Master Kenobi,” Dooku said, surprising Anakin again by granting Obi-Wan the proper title. “I have done exactly as you said. I always blamed our actions on Galidraan on what we were told, but…that should never have been the limit of my efforts. I have spent a long time contemplating ways to make sure a massacre like that never happens again, and yet I refused to accept my own role in those events.

“Thank you.”

Venge tilted his head, his gaze almost as intense as it had been last night. “You would thank me for such an unforgiving assessment?”

“If it is a means to self-improvement? Yes, I would, and I do,” Dooku said with a firm nod. “You have accomplished what no Senator, no other Jedi Councilor, has managed to do in a very long time, and that is to break through my self-imposed truths to reveal the facts—and thus, my weaknesses—that lie beneath.”

“Congratulations,” Master Qui-Gon said, after a beat of silence. “The last time he was willing to make such an admission, it required my fist impacting his jaw.”

“I deserved it just as much then as I do now,” Dooku replied, a brief smile lighting his features.

Anakin realized he was staring at Dooku in complete disbelief. “You really mean that? Honestly?”

Dooku didn’t seem bothered by his skepticism. “I have many failings, Padawan Skywalker, but I am not a liar.”

“No. No, you are not,” Venge murmured. “Even though I once believed otherwise.”

“Something from your…future?” Dooku looked concerned, but it wasn’t enough to override his interest in the subject.

Venge’s eyes rested on Anakin, and the quick look shared between them was enough for Venge to make a decision. He rolled up the loose sleeve of his shirt until it was almost to his shoulder, revealing the rounded, messy-edged scar on his upper arm.

“A lightsaber scar,” Dooku noted, though he seemed puzzled by the wound’s disclosure. Venge nodded and pulled his shirt sleeve back into place. “Received in battle, I would assume.”

“You gave that to me,” Venge said in a crisp voice. “There is a match to it on my leg, which carved a gap directly through the femur.”

Anakin decided if they were going to jolt Dooku into being smarter, he might as well join in. He shrugged down his tunics to bare his right shoulder. The faint pink edge of the smooth burn scar was just visible. “It goes all the way around,” he said, when Dooku did nothing more than stare in what seemed to be genuine distress. “Same fight.”

“You tried to warn me, once, about Sidious. However, you had made yourself an enemy of the Republic.” Venge’s smile was cutting. “It is rather difficult to have trust in one’s captor, and harder still after he has tried his best to kill you.”

Dooku sat down heavily in his chair. “If I had not believed you before, I do not doubt you now,” he said. “Senator Palpatine spoke to me on Coruscant, not long before your unmasking of his true identity. He asked if I would join him, if granted the opportunity, but I said that I was uncertain. Palpatine then told me that the three of you would not allow something like Galidraan to repeat itself, but one of you would likely die to prevent it.”

“Sidious always tells the truth. It is what makes him dangerous,” Venge said. His face was expressionless, but his hands were flexing at his sides—fist, splayed fingers, closed fist again. Qui-Gon was visibly distressed, but he got that look on his face, that remembered shock and anguish, any time the fight with Maul was mentioned.

“I didn’t believe him. Your missions spoke for themselves, and I’d witnessed several recent practice bouts between the two of you. I walked away impressed, every time,” Dooku said. “But when the news came of what happened…when I learned that he had been correct…”

Dooku seemed unwilling to speak the words. “It was Qui-Gon in your time, wasn’t it?”

The single-panel kitchen window fractured with a loud _crack._ Anakin flinched, ducking on instinct at the temperature in the room dropped again. He glanced around and found an embarrassed Wookiee looking back at him, but at least this time there was no weird ice growth.

Dooku eyed the broken window. “I will take that as an affirmative.”

Qui-Gon sighed. “Obi-Wan.”

Venge shook his head. “I will fix it later.”

“That was not my concern.” Qui-Gon and Venge stared at each other. After a few minutes, the room started to warm back up, and it got a lot easier to breathe.

[Phew,] Rillian said under her breath.

Dooku’s expression was sober, and as open as Anakin had ever seen it. “I understand. Your warning will be heeded.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

 _Comms are terrible inventions,_ Colm Fieff thought, rolling over to find his so he could make it stop doing beepy evil things. This was easier said than done, since his comm was in his pants and his pants were still on the floor where Sireena had stripped them off his body.

He was still blearily trying to focus on the text when Sireena rolled over in bed and sat up. Part of the reason why Colm loved his wife was because she handled mornings about as well as he did—not at all. “The fuck is that noise?” she grumbled, her hand reaching for the bedside table to find something to throw.

“Just the comm.” Colm peered at the text translation on the commscreen. “Shit, it was my travel reminder. I have to ship back to Entrios.”

“What’s on Entrios?” Sireena asked, giving up on her futile hunt for projectiles and thumping back down into bed.

“Nothing much,” Colm said, trying to find a clean pair of underwear in the laundry pile. When he made it to their home on Ord Varee, Colm and Sireena did little together that didn’t revolve around fucking like speed-hyped newlyweds. It didn’t leave room for mundane things like chores and organization. “That’s probably the point.”

“All right. Make sure you say goodbye to the kids properly before you ship out,” Sireena told him. “They’ll guilt you into a sodden mess if you leave without speaking to them again.”

“I will.” Colm had learned that lesson the hard way. Sparing his kids a late-night farewell had only ensured that _he_ had not slept properly for a month straight.

Once he was dressed, lightsaber and tools accounted for, he leaned over and kissed Sireena, who muttered a sleepy “Love you,” at him without opening her eyes. He’d almost made it to the door when she said, “And if you manage to get into that Zeltron’s pants, you make sure to bring her home to meet me. I’m interested in more than just _your_ lightsaber, you know.”

Colm grinned. “I love you, too, dear.”

In the kitchen, his six-year-old daughter was already awake, making herself a sandwich with questionable ingredients. “Morning, Daddy!” she chirped.

“Hi, Branni,” Colm said in greeting, and gave her a dubious look. Branni was a complete morning person, and he still wasn’t sure who was to blame for that. “Sugarbean, it’s fifth hour. The sun isn’t even up yet.” At least someone had maintained enough sense last night to set the caff to brew.

“I know. I was just awake,” she said, putting the finishing touches on breakfast. There was definitely chocolate involved, but she’d added a nut-based spread, so he figured it balanced out.

“You are a crazy person,” Colm said.

“Yep!” she agreed, and took a huge bite of her sandwich. While she was chewing, she pushed her brown hair away from her face and by some miracle did not manage to decorate it with chocolate and nut butter.

“Where’s your brother?”

Branni made a face. “Sleeping. I told Maren that it was awesome to wake up right now because you guys are almost never awake this early and we can do whatever we want as long as nobody gets hurt or dies, but he made me go away.”

“Well, at least you remember the rules,” Colm said, sighing, before he buried his face in his caff mug and drank like a parched draft animal.

He was on his second mug of caff when Branni finished her sandwich. “You’re leaving, right?” she asked.

Colm raised an eyebrow at his daughter. She had a decent midichlorian count, but when he’d broached the idea of being a Jedi with her, four-year-old Branni had stomped her foot and said that Jedi were stupid and she wasn’t going to be one and could she go outside and play, please? However, that didn’t mean she didn’t pay attention to what the Force told her.

“Yes, sugarbean. Leave is over with.”

“Okay. But you have to come back,” Branni said, giving him a serious look.

Colm nodded. “I promise, as always, to do my best.”

“But if you don’t, you have to haunt me. It’s in the by-laws.”

Colm grinned. Sireena was a lawyer, and a damned good one. Apparently _that_ was the talent that was going to run in the family. “You added to the family rules?”

“Yup. It’s family law that you have to come back after every Jedi mission. If you don’t, you have to haunt the family so we don’t miss you and get sick of you moving things and yell at you to stop.”

Colm raised his mug in a partial salute. “I will haunt you until you are heartily sick of me, sugarbean.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“You’ve got everything?”

“You have asked me that three times already,” Venge replied, and then raised the already-hovering sealed crate so that it was level with Anakin’s eyes. “Nothing is forgotten unless it was you who did the forgetting.”

[Not likely,] Rillian grumbled. [He checked it six times before we even packed the stupid crate back on Coruscant.]

“Sorry, I’m just feeling…”

“Paranoid,” Venge finished for Anakin. It was a feeling he could not shake, either, despite Dooku’s earlier departure. Qui-Gon had returned from the spaceport with storm clouds in his eyes and a grim cast to his features. He hadn’t been subtle in his efforts to stay close by Venge’s side since then, but Venge didn’t mind…and he was so damned tired. The sleep he’d gotten last night seemed utterly useless.

“Right.” Anakin shrugged. “Well, you’ve got the prototypes from the conference, plus the research I’ve been doing, and between the two of us, Rillian and I managed to stuff enough clothes inside so that you won’t be wandering Entrios naked.”

Venge almost smiled. “A relief to everyone, I am sure.”

“Almost everyone,” Qui-Gon murmured, and then said, “I forgot to ask: How was the technical conference?”

Venge tilted his head, contemplating how to best answer. “Amazing, awe-inspiring moments of technological genius, interspersed with long periods of interminable boredom.”

“About usual, then.” Qui-Gon smiled.

Anakin snorted. “Yeah, it was mind-numbing, for the most part. But, right before Rillian and I followed you guys out here, the first prototypes came in, so that means the Shadows can break them and report back about how to make improvements.”

“I can’t believe you found companies willing to build your designs so quickly,” Qui-Gon said.

“Are you kidding? We had companies _fighting_ over the right to build this stuff.” Anakin grinned. “That was the awesome part.”

[I think that’s your ride, Master Obi-Wan,] Rillian said, pointing to the approaching speeder. It was still at least two minutes’ distant, if the driver was adhering to local traffic laws.

“And thus, there is one thing left to be done,” Venge said, and slipped a flat box from his jacket pocket, one that was about the breadth and depth of his outstretched hand. “I know that it is not until tomorrow, but…”

[Happy Birthday, Master!] Rillian howled, as Venge placed the box into Qui-Gon’s outstretched hand.

“It’s kind of a concerted effort,” Anakin said, looking sheepish. “I came up with the original specs. Obi-Wan pointed out that you’d be a good trial for it and helped me alter the design to fit you. Rillian chose the finishing material.”

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. “Is this going to explode if I open it incorrectly?”

Rillian giggled. [No.]

“It had _better_ not,” Venge muttered.

Qui-Gon shook his head and slid the lid off of the box, revealing a single glove of what appeared to be simple, dark brown leather. “Interesting,” he commented, picking it up. “Though, gloves usually come in pairs.”

“Not unless you have managed to fuck up both of your hands,” Venge said in a dry voice.

“It’s not just leather—it’s only made to _look_ like it’s plain old leather,” Anakin said, his voice rising in excitement as he explained. “It’s a reinforced biomedical support device—not the crappy standard kind, either. This one is designed to learn about and monitor old injuries, and it alerts you if you’re doing too much so that you can avoid making things worse.”

Rillian held the box while Qui-Gon slipped the glove onto his right hand. The fingers ended at the second knuckle, allowing for unrestricted sensation at the fingertips. The leather was almost too tight, but it would give just enough for a proper fit after a few hours of wear.

Venge watched his mate flex his hand, and thought that it would be entirely possible to develop a fetish for leather gloves just from that sight alone.

“Do I need to do anything special for it to function?” Qui-Gon asked.

“Nope.” Anakin was grinning bright enough to compete with a sun. “There’s a data port at the cuff, so you can download detailed information, but it turns on the moment it detects body heat. Means you can go beat the crap out of a sandbag in the training salle, and the glove will warn you when you’ve done too much by either getting cold or warm—whatever the computer thinks will get your attention the fastest.”

[Master Micah is beta-testing a different version for his leg and hip,] Rillian added.

At Qui-Gon’s questioning look, Venge said, “He is testing longevity, while you are beta-testing the technology for impact resistance.”

[Oh, and it’s very subtle, but look here.] Rillian pointed to the faint line of glyphs that wrapped the cuff, just above the well-hidden tab for the data port.

Qui-Gon smiled. “I mistranslated before, didn’t I? It means more than ‘wise tree.’”

[Good names always do,] Rillian said, her gray eyes full of adoration for her Master.

The speeder arrived with a high-pitched hiss of repulsors as the driver braked too hard, stopping a bare meter distant. The Gran leaned over the side and barked, “Which one’a you is my fare?”

“That would be me,” Venge said, and levitated the crate into the rear of the speeder before the driver could protest.

“Fuckin’ Jedi fares. You’d better tip,” the Gran said, settling back behind the controls with a barely restrained smirk.

Venge held out his arms so that Rillian could dart in and hug him. He was almost getting used to her affectionate pouncing. “Good luck,” he whispered near her ear.

[Luck?] Rillian leaned back and gave him a quizzical look.

He smiled. “You’ll find out. Anakin?” he called, and gave his Padawan a brief, tight embrace that Anakin returned in full measure. It made him realize that his Padawan had gained height in the time they’d been separated.

Venge turned his attention to Qui-Gon, who looked resigned, even though he was smiling. “I promised,” he said, and found himself engulfed in his mate’s arms. Venge leaned his head again Qui-Gon’s chest, hearing the comforting echo of Qui-Gon’s heartbeat.

_You did, and if you break that promise, I am going to be very cross with you._

Venge forced himself to disengage, to turn and walk away. He did not look back.

He jumped into the speeder and slumped down into the passenger seat next to the Gran. “Go.”

“Whassa matter?” the driver asked, though he did actually start their journey. “Bad breakup or somethin’?”

“I will pay you double not to fucking talk to me.”

The driver grinned. “Yessir,” he said, and floored the accelerator. He was going faster than the legal limit for a residential zone, but as long as the Gran didn’t hit anyone, Venge did not currently care.

 

*          *          *          *

 

[What did he mean, ‘Good luck?’] Rillian asked as the speeder departed. Qui-Gon watched until the telltale copper of Obi-Wan’s hair disappeared from view, and tried to ignore the vast, terrible feeling that he was not going to see his Lifemate again. It was not the Force he was hearing, but his own blasted paranoia.

He hoped.

“Let’s get back to your ship, Padawan, and you can lay in a course for Coruscant,” Qui-Gon said. Anakin picked up Teya’s crate, which contained an angry, tail-thrashing feline who was sulking about being prevented from following Venge all the way back to Entrios. Rillian shouldered a pack, the only bit of their gear not already stowed on the _Malla Kazza._

Qui-Gon gestured for the two apprentices to precede him. The glove fit well, but was going to be hard to get used to. Still, it was a gift that he appreciated, and a very large part of Qui-Gon could not wait until the opportunity arose to test the device.

 _And then, we will drop out of hyperspace when the journey is half complete, and plot a new course,_ he continued to say through the training bonds. Anakin glanced up at him, caught the gist of his thoughts, and started to grin like a fiend.

[What? Why?] Rillian wanted to know, trying to look at Qui-Gon while navigating the increasing pedestrian traffic as they crossed into the River Point District.

“Well, the first reason is because the Bando Gora are still hanging around, keeping an eye on us,” Anakin replied aloud.

[I don’t understand that at all. If they’re watching us, why aren’t they doing anything about it?]

“I don’t know,” Qui-Gon said. The Bando Gora had not moved to attack them further, and at this point, Qui-Gon didn’t believe they were going to do so. It was behavior that made no sense, given their dramatic introduction of the previous day.

Further, while the Bando Gora’s presence could be detected, none of them had been able to pinpoint exactly where the cultists were lurking. Qui-Gon suspected that they were using some sort of Force inhibition device to partially hide themselves, which made their actions even more baffling.

Rillian held out until they entered the docking bay where the _Malla Kazza_ was housed before giving in to her desperate curiosity. [Where are we going, then, if not back to Coruscant?]

Qui-Gon smiled. He’d made the arrangements before leaving the Temple; if the Council had need of him, they would contact him. It was not as if they would be out of touch.

 _You have an obligation that I have ignored for too long, Padawan,_ he answered Rillian. _We’re going to Kashyyyk._

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Y’know, I could have picked you up back in Tyrena,” Quinlan Vos said in greeting, “instead of a forest clearing a good five hundred kliks from nowhere.”

Venge shrugged, making sure the Gran was departing without difficulty. He no longer sensed the watchful eyes of the Bando Gora, but did not see the need to take further chances.

“Fine. Don’t talk to me,” Quinlan grumbled, snagging the crate from Venge’s Force-grip. “Where do you want this?”

“Secured,” Venge said, finally turning back to the ship and walking up the ramp. “Hello, Vos.”

“Ah, now you speak to me.” Quinlan grinned. “Saw you on the ’Net, by the way.”

“Was it entertaining?” Venge asked, waiting long enough to see the crate wrapped in cargo webbing.

“It’s always entertaining when you’re involved, Kenobi.” Quinlan paused. “Got a message from Abella. She says that you’d better have put yourself back together properly afterward, or she’ll skin you anew and then dump you in a bacta tank.”

Venge sat down in the co-pilot’s chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “That might not be a bad idea,” he said under his breath.

“Seriously?”

He nodded in response, listening as Quinlan settled down in the pilot’s chair. The decking under his feet thrummed as the engines came up from standby.

Quinlan waited until he’d engaged the sublights for the flight through the atmosphere before speaking again. “Still beat up from the fight with our new cultist friends, or is this Fire related?”

Venge let out a breath. “The former,” he said, but the words were heavy on his tongue. He’d been dealing with A Drop of Fire for twenty-seven days, and was a mere three days shy of the Healers’ original estimate for maintaining his health.

He ached; he was exhausted. Both could have been caused the fight, further aggravated by his attempted resurrection of the Bando Gora prisoner. He had not slept much, before or since. Qui-Gon had healed the ankle he’d broken, which at least spared Venge from having to subject himself to Dark healing.

He still had at least three months to go. Bacta did not sound like a bad idea at all.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Callero shooed the last senior Padawan out of the lab, shaking his head. “Is it just me, or do the lot of them get messier with each year that passes?”

“Your memory is faulty; it’s just you,” Kimal Daarc replied, without lifting his head from the viewscreen he was studying.

“Hmph.” Callero hid a smile, trying his best to maintain his false cloud of glowering displeasure. It kept most of the young blighters in line. “You were supposed to be helping me deal with them, and yet you had your face glued to a screen all afternoon.”

“It shows me far prettier things than you, Master Callero,” Kimal said.

Callero grinned. “You’re just saying that because you want to be rid of me.”

“It isn’t my fault that you forgot to retire when you’d proclaimed your intention to do so.”

Callero set to work, repackaging the crystals that remained unused. Most of the kids were damned respectful of the lab and its materials, but there were always a few Padawans who were overcome with excitement by receiving unrestricted crystal access for the first time. “I’m not reassured that you’ll be a good successor. Instead, I’ve decided that this is my lab, and you can have it when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

When the standard rejoinder was never spoken, Callero turned around to look at the Arconan Master. Kimal’s eyes had narrowed to emerald green slits, an expression that served the raise the fur on Callero’s arms. It took a great deal of effort to rouse the younger Master’s temper. “What is it?”

“I was counting the samples from RF-228,” Kimal said, raising his head from the screen. “At first, I thought the rocks must have been filed incorrectly, but that is not quite the case. At least half of the stones are missing.”

“Son of a bitch,” Callero hissed, all of his ire with a few half-witted Padawans disappearing in an instant. “How did we miss that?”

“The theft was spread out between each container.” Kimal shook his head. “Given the strange nature of the stones, it was easy enough to overlook. I had to use the scanner and the computer to keep a running tally.”

“Are we certain it’s a theft?” Callero leaned over Kimal’s shoulder to take a look at the readout. Of the original one hundred twenty eight samples, only sixty-seven remained. “Perhaps one of our idiot friends borrowed a crate to work with the stones in a shielded room, but forgot to tell us.” Master Yoda and Master Gallia had recently done the same, but at least the Councilors had properly logged their time and use.

“Maybe,” Kimal admitted, though he didn’t look convinced. “I’ll be going through the lab thoroughly tonight. It’s still possible that a container was misplaced.”

“That could take a damned long time. You won’t know unless you physically find the things.” The Force-dampening stones from RF-228 were funny that way. Callero didn’t like the rocks, which buzzed in his hands, though Kimal found them fascinating. The rocks’ unique ability also meant that Callero had more Councilors ruffling his fur than he wished for.

He sighed. A theft would mean even _more_ Councilors would turn up in his lab. “I’ll stay and help.”

Kimal’s mouth flattened out from its scowl, the edges turning up as he smiled. “You awoke before the sun rose, as always, and I know it’s your nap time, elder cat. Go to bed. I can handle the search on my own.”

Callero opened his mouth to protest and then yawned, instead. He was getting old, dammit. A late night used to be an easier thing to manage. “You Arconan bastard. Leave a message on my desk to let me know what you find…or don’t find, as the case may be.”

The hallways were thick with passing Jedi, to the point where it was a relief to make it into an empty turbolift. He leaned against the wall, whiskers twitching. He should have retired five years ago—had planned to do so, had announced his intention…

Callero shook his head and walked the final few meters to his quarters. He missed his mate, who’d passed into the Force almost a decade ago. He missed their children, one a Jedi Master, the other too stubborn to take enough time to scrub the grease from her fur between projects. Neither was in-Temple often.

 _I should choose a warm desert planet and make my retirement certain,_ Callero thought, shrugging out of his short robe and hanging it by the door. He flexed his feet on the hard fiber woven mats that covered the floor, pleased to have the rough, familiar texture underfoot after a long day of too-smooth tile and metal.

There was a box on his living room table, one of the larger sample crates from the crystal lab. Callero frowned, sniffing the air. “What the actual hell?”

He snatched the lid off the box and peered inside. It was indeed full of the samples from RF-228. Callero didn’t think all sixty-one were within, but…

“Retirement,” Callero said firmly, replacing the lid. “If I can walk off with an entire box of rocks and forget I’ve done it, then it’s time for a nice, hot, sandy planet. These can go back to the lab.”

Callero stopped in the middle of removing his tunic, tilting his head in puzzlement. He stared down at his bed, where his cloth strips had already been neatly rearranged in his favored circle.

_Was there not something that I needed to do?_

Once he had finished removing his clothes, Callero wandered back out into his living room. He was forgetting something, and he hated that damned feeling. It was what had prompted him to consider retiring in the first place, that encroaching forgetfulness. Then the time had come, and he’d just…decided not to. It hadn’t felt right, not then.

His eyes fell on his living room table. There was nothing he could see, and yet he was certain there should be.

 _I’m getting old,_ Callero thought, and went back to bed.

 

 


End file.
